


Solstice Cookies

by FromAnonymousToZ



Category: Over the Garden Wall (Cartoon & Comics)
Genre: Cookies, Exchanging cookies, Its just a generic community holiday with cookies echanged, Just sweet drivel, M/M, Not based on a specific winter holiday, Nothing special here, Short & Sweet, Weird unknown holidays because I said so, Winter Hollidays, Winter Solstice, dumb, i meant to post this yesterday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:28:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28246164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FromAnonymousToZ/pseuds/FromAnonymousToZ
Summary: The Beast is the recipient of several solstice gifts.
Relationships: The Beast/Enoch (Over the Garden Wall)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 21





	Solstice Cookies

The Unknown is a host to a great many holiday traditions, and somewhere, no matter the time of year, you could find a festival or celebration in full swing. Homes full of laughter and decorated by songs. Alcohol strong on the air, candles burning out or kept lit, games sprawled across the floor. Stoves hot and pies steaming.

In the spring, there were the festivals of new birth and fertility. There were the songs of the first snowmelt. There were celebrations of love and flowers, parades and music, holidays of joy and unity, festivals of colors. There was the celebration of tricksters and religious celebrations of the raised dead, remembrances, and May Day celebrated in every major clearing of the unknown. The equinox and end of winter brought much celebration throughout the Unknown. There was the day of sowing and the first moon and celebrations of fasting and of eating. There was the festival of new blooms and the singing of owls, and of course, there was the mantis holidays and the holiday of the new sun.

In summer, there was the beloved summer solstice and growing festivals, and the midsummer festivals. There was the season of the sun, filled with bonfires and yellow rags and celebrations of the sea when the world reeked of salt. There were celebrations of fruit and game, the day of pillars, and the festival of lights. And the celebration of the sun and moon’s union brought more people to their doorstep than any other holiday.

And in autumn, there were harvest festivals, the celebrations of the dead and dying, of the living and burning. There were games of back and forth and days of bones, of worships and offerings and holidays of the Harvest Lord. There were days of candy and coins and decorated faces. Days of eating and days of laughter. The festival of Samhain and celebrations of candles and lights, and the celebrations of witches. There was the turning of the season and the days of death. 

But it was winter, that held more celebration than anything else. The dreary time and season had many looking for any excuse to celebrate. 

And celebrate they do. 

There was the winter solstice, the festival of longest nights, the night of flame, and the lantern-fire celebration. There were days of feasting and nights of gifts, nights of tricksters and storytelling when the people of the winter thicket were more like their Warden than even he would believe. It was a time of alcohol spilled at the earliest occasion. There was the celebration of innocence and the worship of Old Winter when children would dress up with branches to mimic their Warden. There were festivals of five days and celebrations of eight, marked by candles or strips of colored fabric. There was the celebration of hounds when the yipping and braying of dogs was louder than the singing ringing through the trees. On first frost and first snowfall, there were fires to be lit and dances to be twirled. There was the day of edeltrees and the day of songs. Some days seemed to be nothing more than a celebration of giving out sweets and days that celebrated the watchmen and that prayed for the night travelers. There was the celebration of shadows and the days of sacrifice. There were days of frozen rivers and the festivals of stars. 

The Beast was no stranger to the celebrations of the Unknown. He knew of their loud, boisterous festivals and knew which swathes of his wood did not celebrate and which did and when. He knew their songs and their traditions and had imitated their heroes and holy figures and stories for his own ends. 

And yet, he was always taken aback by Pottsfeild. 

Pottsfeild seemed to take any opportunity to celebrate anything, never picking anything concrete to celebrate and yet with a festival seemingly every turn of the moon. 

Their autumn celebrations were second to none, but their winter festivals were still quite a thing to behold. 

The Beast knows this because he is standing in the thick of it as Pottsfeilders rush past, arms full of platters and steaming trays. He had not meant to intrude, truly. He usually kept to himself when Pottsfeild was tumbling over itself in rejoicing festivities, save for perhaps the autumn festival, but he could hardly be blamed. Enoch was at his strongest then, and it was hard to resist the call of autumn and plenty when it stubbornly trickled through the wood and wrapped itself around his bark. 

Enoch had, when he had managed to capture the Beast in his ribbons, explained that the Beast had stumbled upon their solstice festival preparations and then had refused to release the Beast as he went on overseeing the chaos of his people. 

One of the pumpkin folk, with long straw hair that skirted the cobbles around their feet, bounds forward out of the crowd, chattering excitedly and proudly displaying a plate full of cookies. Enoch leans forward, enraptured, and glances fascinatedly over the cookies. 

His voice is a rolling ocean. The Beast hears but does not pay attention as the chortling laughter and boisterous conversations of Pottsfeilders rise around him and wash over him. He watches them, flitting orange and brown like monarch butterflies. Steam rises from pies juggled in bone hands that don’t feel the heat, sitting in circles weaving cornsilk ribbons or carving pumpkins to hold candles.

Enoch’s ribbons snare across his antlers, and he turns, watching as Enoch waves off the Pottsfeilder with the long hair cheerfully. The plate of cookies is left in Enoch’s ribbons. 

The Beast leans forward curiously to inspect them, and Enoch shifts to better accommodate him. 

A ribbon licks up along his leg, and he ignores it. 

He blinks down at the cookie tray as he recognizes a cat shape among them. 

He turns to Enoch, incredulous. 

“These are shaped like you.” He says flatly. 

Enoch laughs, and a group of nearby Pottsfeilders break out into tittering giggles. 

“Yes,” Enoch breathes out at last, and burning-sugar molasses coats the Beast’s throat when he breaths in. 

“My, my.” He drawls dryly. “How vain of you, Harvest Lord.”

“You wound me, Cricket,” Enoch purrs, not sounding in the least wounded. With a flourish of his ribbons Enoch plucks a cookie from the tray and holds it up for the Beast’s inspection. “And what do you think of this one, Cricket?” 

The Beast glances away from the tray to glance at the cookie Enoch is holding tauntingly before him. He blinks in surprised rings of purple and yellow. 

Slowly, his claws twitch, and he reaches to take the cookie from Enoch’s grasp. 

“Enoch.” He says, eyes still fixed on the cookie. “Is this a cookie shaped like  _ me _ ?” He says flatly, voice thoroughly unimpressed. 

Enoch cocks his head, peering down at the cookie. 

“Why, yes.” He hums. “I do believe it is.”

The Beast frowns down at the cookie as Enoch is dragged into some inane conversation by one of his Pottsfeilders. 

Distantly, he hears Enoch cooing over a pie. 

He stares down at the cookie. Frustration rises through him and makes him shift uneasily.

When the Harvest Lord’s attention shifts back to him, the Beast’s voice is demanding. 

“Why is this cookie shaped like me?” His claws tighten, and the edges of the sweet begin to crumble under the pressure. 

Enoch hums and plucks the confection from his hands before it can fall to pieces in his claws, deftly replacing it with one of his ribbons for the Beast to fret instead. 

“Because, Turtle,” Enoch says as he rubs soothing circles along the Beast’s shoulders with his ribbons. “You are here nearly as often as you are not, and they like you.” Enoch gestures widely with his ribbons. “I do not dictate what cookies they make. They make cookies for the ones they want to wish well in the coming winter. I always get several for you, especially in these past centuries, and before that, Miss Clara made a cookie for you every winter for years. You don’t tend to show up around festival week, though, neighbor, and I have never had an opportunity to give yours to you before the mice get to them. Since you’ll be staying for most of the festivities, I imagine you’ll get quite a few more.”

“I don't recall saying I would be present for your festivities.” The Beast says, deftly tying a knot in Enoch’s ribbon. 

“Interesting to think I gave you the option of choosing, neighbor.” Enoch hums as Miss Clara sweeps forward, her arms full of silvery cobwebs, piled so high she can barely see. She stumbles on the uneven cobbles and tips forward. 

Enoch’s ribbons flash reflexively, catching her and setting her upright easily. 

The woman lets out a peal of surprised laughter and turns to face him. 

“Oh, thank you, Enoch. I don’t know where my head is this season,” She says, voice filled with light humor. 

“On your shoulders, I should hope,” Enoch teases, and she positively beams up at him. 

At last, she notices the Beast, from where he lurks in Enoch’s shadow.

“Mr. Hope! I didn’t realize you were here! Have you come to spend the solstice week with us?” She asks excitedly, bounding forward, spools of silver spilling out over her arms. 

Before the Beast can open his mouth, a ribbon tresses itself up around his chest affectionately. Enoch speaks for him. 

“Yes!” He purrs. “Miss Clara, you’ll need to remind me, is this Mr. Hope’s first solstice with us?” 

“Well,  _ I _ certainly can’t remember a winter he’s weathered with us.”

Enoch leans forward, cupping a ribbon to a mouth of fabric, and stage whispers to the woman. 

“Then we simply  _ must _ ensure it is a good one,” One of Miss Clara’s hands flutters to her mouth as she giggles conspiratorially. 

The Beast blinks tiredly and watches as Enoch sends the woman off. 

“Enoch, I have to hunt.” He insists when the maypole turns back to him, ribbons crawling up his shoulders. 

“You need to relax,” Enoch coos back. “Your trees will watch themself for a week or so.” 

“The solstice is when it is easiest to grow my trees.” He hisses back, and Enoch sighs, disappointment palpable. 

“If you must, neighbor,” Enoch’s voice is icy, and his ribbons slink away from the Beast. “I will not keep you away from your forest.”

The Beast frowns, shades of green and yellow flickering through his eyes. Enoch’s displeasure is rot on the air, and the cheery conversations of Pottsfeilders have trickled off as they continue their work in silence, mirroring their lord’s mood. 

The Beast growls, low and annoyed. 

“Fine,” He grits out. Immediately the Harvest Lord’s icy disposition melts, warm humor seeping back into the air as ribbons tie themselves in bows around the Beast’s wrists. 

“How lovely!” Enoch croons delightedly, and the Beast sighs. 

And that’s how he finds himself participating in Pottsfeild’s solstice festival.

The solstice festival is more… subdued than Pottsfeild’s autumn festivals. It consisted of a steady trickle of Pottsfielders moving about and around small bunches of them captured in conversation. They sang and laughed, sitting in circles, eating and drinking, as others walked in pairs or groups, ringing doorbells and caroling. They still broke into boisterous singing on occasion, but it was not the flurry of movement that marked the harvest festival. Instead, it was a lazy river in which they allowed themself to be dragged, occasionally stopping to join some group as another broke away.

The streets were crowded, and the doors to the barn thrown open for Pottsfeilders to churn in and out of.

Enoch remained in his barn, something the Beast suspected was more for his benefit than any benefit of Enoch’s. 

At the foot of the maypole, a handful of Pottsfeilders sit, trays of food and glasses of alcohol in their laps as they braid Enoch’s ribbons. It had taken some coaxing, but Enoch had eventually tempted the Beast to join them, and he sat, tucked against the maypole, with them.

He personally doesn't have a plate nor glass, and yet a small pile of confectionaries has taken up residence in his lap. 

It surprises him every time it happens, but once, every few minutes or so, a Pottsfeilder will find their way into Enoch’s barn, a selection of cookies tied in a handkerchief or in a plate held before them. A cookie is then presented to Enoch, who coos and purrs over it, dripping with pleased satisfaction, and then, sometimes, they turn to the Beast to offer a cookie to him. 

Tentatively, he accepts the cookie, claws twitching as his furs prickle. 

They’re all different, some are lopsidedly shaped, and some have ignored his antlers in favor of a narrow figure. Some smell like ginger, and some have sugar that flakes away under his careful touch. Some are burned and browned at the edges, and some are still doughy to the touch. Some are cold and hard, and others are so brittle they begin to crumble at the lightest brush. Some are still warm and steam in his hands. 

The sweet smell emanating from them makes it hard to breathe, but he graciously accepts each one. 

The Beast doesn’t know if he’s supposed to eat them, but he’s never prompted to do so. 

The Pottsfeilders around him titter as Miss Clara slips down to sit in the hay beside the Beast. 

Enoch purrs a greeting, and the Beast hums as a ribbon slinks up his shoulders, tracing idle patterns along his back and tugging against his furs. 

Miss Clara’s hand pats his wrist, and he turns, careful of his antlers, distracted by the strips of fabric lacing around him. He hums, eyes faintly tinged with blue at the pumpkin face that peers up at him. 

Miss Clara’s joy and excitement radiate in dull waves beneath contentment as he scents the air. Her hand reaches into her apron, and she withdraws a sugar cookie, simple enough, darker at the edges where the cookie has been pressed against the edge of a pan. 

He blinks down at it because lines have been carved into the cookie to make a picture.

A figure, crudely resembling himself, stares up at him, his antlers simplified to fit into the cookie but distinct, and in his arms, a rough depiction of a cat.

Curiosity churns in the air as the Harvest Lord tries to subtly peek around the Beast to glimpse the pastry. 

“Miss Clara!” His voice bellows scandalized. A ribbon sweeps to snatch the confection from the Beast’s claws. The Beast bristles and swats the swath of fabric away before turning to further inspect the cookie. 

She laughs, high, like the tinkling of a bell. 

“You’re not as good at keeping secrets as you think, Enoch.” She teases, voice light. 

Enoch splutters, ribbons making broad flicks, other Pottsfeilders have begun to break into giggles, jostling around the Beast to glimpse the cookie that sparked such a response from their serene Harvest Lord.

Teasing rises through the air as Enoch’s scandalization reaches more ears. 

“Harvest Lord,” The Beast’s voice cuts through the din, low and deep. The barn falls silent. 

“Yes, dear?” Enoch says, sounding a touch strained. 

“You’ll have to forgive my ignorance,” He blinks. “What is the significance in the two of us on one pastry?” 

The barn erupts with titters, giggles, and booming laughter, teasing voices crescendoing in an indecipherable sea of noise. 

Enoch’s flustered ribbons tearing becomes more evident as the noise breaks, Pottsfeilders leaning in eagerly to hear Enoch’s explanation. 

Enoch sighs, a defeated noise, and begins to awkwardly stumble through an explanation. 

“It means,” A giggle is silenced by a hushing chorus. “That the two parties on the cookie are…” Enoch pauses, fretting the edges of his ribbons, tittering teasing encouragement rises up as Enoch picks his words carefully. “Engaged... in a romantic sense of the word,” Enoch says at last, and the barn goes quiet awaiting the Beast’s response. 

He blinks up at Enoch and then down at the cookie. 

Then he turns to Miss Clara, who’s hay braids are fraying under her nervous touch. 

“Thank you.” He murmurs at last, and she laughs, warm and sweet like an echo of Enoch.

“Of course, dear!” She chimes and bats a skeletal hand thinly veiled by hay at Enoch’s ribbons. “I told you Mr. Hope wouldn’t mind.”

Enoch chuckles, and as he and his subjects lapse back into festivities, the Beast traces the edges of the cookie with a claw. 

No. 

He doesn't mind. 

He doesn't mind at all. 


End file.
